


Hush

by frodo (ringbearer)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Minas Morgul, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, i just wanted to write this out, sam and frodo is implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27798469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ringbearer/pseuds/frodo
Summary: The only light they could see came from far off and was a sickly pale green
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Kudos: 14





	Hush

**Author's Note:**

> i enjoy writing out film sequences. can u tell?

The lush green Gondorian landscape had long since given way to dark craggy cliffs, sharp rocks, and a perpetually dark sky. It seemed that one moment Frodo and Sam were following Sméagol through the sparse forests near the very edge of Gondor’s borders and then after a mere blink, they found themselves in an altogether different setting, one that set their teeth on edge and made them shudder as though there were a chill in the air as constant as the blackness that now surrounded them. Gone were trees and the brush and the flowers. Gone even was the grass. All that existed now was black rock and dust along with the smell of smoke that seemed to permeate the air, though they saw no sign of nearby flames. The only light they could see came from far off and was a sickly pale green.

Frodo couldn’t stop his gaze from drifting to the light again and again, his eyes glazing over as they went from his feet shuffling across the ashen ground, to Sméagol, to Sam, to stare at the dreadful beacon, shining out through the soupy darkness like a haunting pharos of utmost terror. Could he see far enough ahead, he felt he would witness the light drawing all evil things within a hundred leagues of it into its glare like moths to flame.

For reasons he could not explain, it made him shudder, his heart pounding in his chest, his fingers curled into trembling fists, his breath coming in short quick gasps. Anymore it seemed he could never draw in enough air and his head swam from the lack of it, making him stumble as his eyelids fluttered.

Whatever the light was, he found as it drew ever nearer, he did not want to discover its source.

For hours, they stumbled through rugged ravines and jagged outcroppings. Frodo’s stare returning again and again to the greenish glow, his dread growing the further on they went, until at last they fell into a gully surrounded by rock faces, thick arches of stone connecting the walls that framed the path, and, when, at last they emerged from this vale, the illumination’s origin was at last revealed.

Before them, at the end of an elevated path, the edge of which they peered over, they could see a large structure. The walls seemed to be made from white stone and, though they were opaque, they could see the green light shining from within. A tall tower stretched up into the sky far above them, the base of which was a great circle, looking not unlike a wheel with great spoke-like structures jutting out all around it. The roofing was black and the entrance was as well. The gate was framed by a pair of gruesome stone statues; two monstrous looking creatures that Frodo had no name for with their tongues lolling from mouths full of jagged teeth. The whole thing seemed to be growing out of the rock around it, like some horrific abscess in the poisoned landscape around them.

“The Dead City,” Sméagol hissed, his narrowed eyes never leaving the frightening castle before them. “Very nasty place. Full of...enemies.”

Frodo swallowed hard, only barely biting back a shudder.

Sméagol pulled himself up onto the cobbled stone path and Frodo followed, unable to turn from the building before him.

He hardly remembered he wasn’t alone even as he shuffled after the figure in front of him.

“Quick! Quick!” Sméagol said, panic edging into his tone now. “They will see us! They will see!”

Frodo heard him as if from far away, the words only distantly reaching his ears, the closer they got to the castle, unable to tear his gaze from it, his eyes glazed, his pace slowing. He did not even notice Sam hurrying past him.

A sharp quiet gasp escaped him.

The trembling in his fingers increased.

“Come away, come away,” Sméagol’s voice said from somewhere behind him.

Frodo stumbled backwards, only just barely managing to rip his eyes from the Dead City, blinking several times as if trying to clear the blurriness of sleep from them.

“Look, we have found it,” Sméagol went on. “The way into Mordor. The Winding Stair.”

Frodo stared up at the massive cliff before them and, sure enough, carved into the stone were thick steep steps, going to a peak so far above them it could not be seen in this dark, the blackened sky so blended into the darkened rock.

“Climb.”

And that was when the voices started.

_Frodo Baggins of the Shire...thief of_ _greatest_ _gold...bringer of_ _most harrowing_ _destruction...come..._ _e_ _ase your_ _great_ _suffering...within the walls of our humble City...you shall be free.._

Frodo’s head very slowly turned once more towards the structure and yet another gasp left his lips.

The statues’ mouths did not move, but it was them who spoke. He was sure of it. They were inviting him into their home. They were inviting him to be free.

How could he say no to that?

The image of the City seemed to tremble before him, shaking as though the very earth beneath his feet bucked and surged, though he could not feel it.

_Lay down your weary head upon our sheets of finest silk...forsake the burdens of your mind and body...allow your soul to rest...just for a short while...just a short while…_

Before he had even truly registered what was happening, Frodo was stumbling towards the castle as if compelled or drawn in by some unseen force.

 _Just a short rest,_ he thought, his fingers fisted around the Ring at his breast. _Yes...that would be alright. Just a short rest and then I may be on my way…_

_Yesss, Mr. Baggins...just a short rest…a very short one indeed..._

Familiar frantic voices called behind him, but he paid them no heed.

How could he deny such a generous offer? How could he say no to such a warm voice?

Frodo’s hand fell from the Ring as he continued to stagger down the path towards the City, his lips parted, his brows drawn together. His expression was fearful, but his mind swam with exhaustion. All he wanted was what he was being promised.

Just a short rest.

Just a short rest.

“No!” cried the voice of Sam, suddenly very near, grasping his arm as he began reaching for the City itself. He stumbled back, letting out a grunt.

“They’re calling me,” he mumbled.

But suddenly he was being torn from the City, Sam’s hands on his outstretched arm and around his shoulders, Sméagol pulling with both of his hands at Frodo’s free one. He stumbled back, whipping his head over his shoulder instinctively to see where they were going before his foot hit a rock and he collapsed backwards onto the path.

At least, that was what he thought it was.

But now the ground really was rumbling beneath his feet, the whole world seeming to shake as though the very earth were going to come apart and swallow all three of them whole.

Then, without warning, a greenish mist none of them had noticed before, gathered all together in a swirling vortex and shot up into the clouds above their heads, turning into a blinding white cyclone of fury as wretched as the violent roaring beneath them.

_Frodo Baggins of the Shire! Death and pain will come to you! Horror and torment will befall you! Enter the Land of Fire and burn!_

Frodo’s eyes widened and he nearly cried out from fear as he clutched once more at the Ring. He clung to Sam as he helped him to his feet, his hand never leaving the Ring around his neck. The voices were screaming in his head now and it was all he could do to keep from screaming with them.

_Ringbearer! You are destined only to suffer and die!_ _Give in! Give in now or embrace the full weight of your agonizing destruction!_

Then a sickening laughter as if of a thousand voices seemed to sound from all around him, ringing in his ears, shutting out all other sense, immobilizing him. It was only when Sam began pushing him away to an outcropping at the bottom of the nearby cliff face that he at last was able to move, stumbling behind the rocks only to collapse at once, gasping, his entire body covered in a cold sweat that made his small frail body shiver and shake.

Clinging to the rock adjacent to where he lay his head, Frodo used all of his remaining strength to pull himself up just enough to look over his shoulder and peer over the edge of the outcropping at the City.

The laughter was now deafening.

 _You must not scream!_ He told himself desperately. _Whatever lives within those walls will hear you if you do! They’ll come for you! They’ll come for Sam! You cannot let them take Sam!_

By Valar he would not let them take Sam.

As he watched, a great black beast, not unlike a dragon, arose from over the lip of one of the spokes protruding from the castle’s might base before resting atop the spoke, it’s large leathery wings draped across the surrounding roofing of the structure.

But Frodo knew what it was. Just as he knew what it was that rode the frightening thing.

The steed of the Nazgûl, the thing itself holding the flying beasts reins on its back.

He shivered. His blood ran cold.

The creature let out a deep throated growl and Frodo let out a grunt of pain, grimacing as he dropped back down against the rock.

And then a horrid shrieking started, making Frodo cry out in agony, covering his ears in a desperate attempt to block out the noise.

But only for a moment.

Within the next, another pain had surpassed it, and Frodo pulled his hands away from his ears, his eyes going wide, his chest heaving, his breath moving between his lips so quickly he wasn’t even sure he was truly drawing any in at all.

His fingers clutched at his shoulder.

The old wound burned as though it had been set alight, as though there were fire beneath his skin.

As though the injury itself were happening all over again.

Desperately, Frodo rubbed at the scar, at the inflamed skin beneath, willing it to help something, _any_ thing, the pain becoming so great he wondered how he could ever hope to survive it.

“I can feel his blade!” he managed to get out in a strained whisper and then his whole body jerked, his face twisting as a scream of utter torture ripped its way out of his throat.

Then the shrieking was cut off and with it the pain.

Frodo let out a cry of relief, his eyelids fluttering as he slumped against the rock, feeling certain even now that had the pain lasted, it would have taken his life.

The winged beast roared again and then the doors of the City opened and a neverending line of orcs, walking five or six abreast, began marching out of it, down the path, back the way Frodo, Sam, and Sméagol had come.

The image of it made panic arise in his chest and despair fill his sinking heart.

All he could think was, _I have failed them! I have failed all of Middle Earth! It is too late! There is no stopping them now!_

**Author's Note:**

> oh yeah i have more of these planned. a lot more. heehee.


End file.
